Ours Verse 2: Emotional Times
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: Sequel to Desperate Times. Alpha/Omega verse and all warning that come with that. Life has to go on when someone dies, especially when you have four children all under four years of age. Even if it feels like something vital has been torn away. There's plenty of advice on how to deal with this sort of tragedy. Not so much advice about what to do when that someone comes back though.
1. Grief

Emotional Times

(Sequel to Desperate Times)

Chapter One: Grief

* * *

Chapter Summary: John and the family grieve for Sherlock.

Same warnings as in the previous fic for this and I own nothing recognisable. Also if anyone is still stuck about the whole alpha/omega verse then fanlore has an explanation if you google search "alpha/omega" and "fanlore"!

Ages

Teagan was 14 months older than Callum. Born in September 2010

Callum is 16 months older than the twins and was born in November 2011

* * *

**Grief**

John had no idea how he managed to get up.

Sherlock was gone. Dead. Suicide.

And John was six months pregnant.

* * *

Callum and Teagan could tell that something wasn't right. Teagan asked for Sherlock until John wanted to scream or cry while Callum had taken to peering into all the rooms and in the strangest places, as if Sherlock might just pop up suddenly from under the rug.

He would end the year with four children, all under four and a widower.

* * *

How could he?

How?

* * *

The media made him out to be some thick, helpless omega that had been fooled by Sherlock, subservient and pathetic.

John barely had the energy to be mad.

* * *

He went into premature labour one morning after yet another article about Sherlock printed an account by a doctor that had treated John, when he'd been pregnant with Teagan, after the vicious heat that landed him in the hospital.

Two months early. He was two months early.

* * *

For the first time he gave birth in hospital, knocked out so that they could deliver the twins via c-section.

Complications meant that they had to perform surgery when there was a rupture. As if he'd needed that to know this was his last labour.

_I __j__ust want our children._

* * *

They were so small.

Helplessly, John stared at his son and daughter through the incubator. Their tiny bodies were surrounded by wires and he could have held each in one hand.

"What have the doctors said?" Mycroft asked softly.

John shook his head. "If I lose them…" he pressed his hand helplessly against the glass. "I can't lose them."

"Have faith," Mycroft said gently.

* * *

"Have you decided what to call them?" the doctor asked.

"Faith and Phineas," John stared at his children.

Trust and belief.

Somewhere, somehow, he hoped Sherlock knew that. Had known it.

_I will always trust Sherlock Holmes._

_I will always believe in Sherlock Holmes._

_And no-one can ever tell me he was a lie._

* * *

Before he had died, Sherlock had managed to blackmail (by what methods John hadn't wanted to know) Mrs Turner into letting him knock through her uppermost floor and seal off the stairs on her side. There were three rooms and the bathroom upstairs now.

When he got back from the hospital he moved everything around. He stripped their room and moved upstairs – twins in one room while Callum and Teagan stayed where they were. The old bedroom downstairs he slowly turned into a playroom.

When the twins were finally released, Teagan was fascinated by them. She would peer down at them and pat their heads sometimes.

"You're exhausted," Mrs Hudson said one day.

Of course he was, but that was good. Exhaustion kept him from thinking, from remembering.

* * *

Teagan turned three in September, then Callum turned two in November. Before John knew it, Sherlock had been gone a year and he was having to think about what to do for the twins first birthday.

Everyone helped. Lestrade's youngest was a little older than Teagan but it was enough that they could amuse each other so sometimes, when he had his two boys for the weekend, he would take her and, on the very odd occasion, Callum to give John a break. Mycroft would put the odd afternoon in as long as Mrs Hudson was on backup duty. Harry would pop over once every month to give John a night at the pub while she played babysitter. Molly was the only one who offered to have all of them for a whole day and somehow she managed it.

They kept him going, kept him sane for his children.

* * *

"Is Dad in heaven?"

Teagan, at almost five years old, seemed so much older than her friends at times. Of all his children, she was the one who would sneak back down and unapologetically curl into him, the way she had with Sherlock when she had been a toddler.

"Yes," John said, stroking her hair and barely watching the film they'd put on.

"Does that mean he died?"

He doubted she really understood what the word meant. To a four year old it seemed to mean that the person wasn't around anymore.

"Yes sweetheart," John said, pulling her closer. "He did."

"Did he like me?"

That question almost broke his heart. "He adored you," John assured her. "You used to sit on his lap while he did experiments and he loved making you gasp in surprise. If he didn't manage it twice a day he'd consider it a waste."

"And Callum?" Teagan asked, suddenly firm. In Teagan's mind, no-one was allowed to not like Callum.

"Yes," John smiled at her. "Callum could make your Dad smile quicker than anyone else on the planet. He barely had to yawn and it would make your Dad chuckle."

"And the twins?"

It hurt that he had no stories for them, that he never would. "He was so excited," John said, hating that it wasn't enough. "Sometimes I think that was why they came early, because he always said he was bored of waiting to meet them."

"And you?"

Not enough. "Yes." John smiled at her. "And I love him very much."

* * *

Callum, for all that he had been a pleasant and placid baby was a little bugger at times. He stood with a grin on his rosy cheeks and hands neatly behind his back, rocking back and forth.

"Want one?" he asked, holding out a squidged chocolate.

"No," John said, folding his arms.

Callum looked a little disheartened for a moment then beamed. "Love you Daddy," he said, sounding utterly sincere.

And the bloody problem was that his son was sincere. He was John's little ray of sunshine, lighting up every room he walked into.

"You were told to wait until after dinner for chocolate," John scolded, trying to remain stern.

"Didn't want to," Callum told him frankly. "Yummy," he said eagerly, rubbing at his belly.

"Naughty," John corrected.

Callum nodded his dark curls in agreement, then smiled happily at him.

His son was either worryingly thick or an utter genius. John could never quite make up his mind which.

* * *

Faith was the only one of his children who had inherited the Watson colouring. Fine honey blond hair framed a sweet little round face and she was the kindest, softest thing in the world. She had a shy little smile and was, if they were ever honest about it, probably Mycroft's favourite because she was so sweet and indulging.

It was almost hard to believe Sherlock had played any part in her sometimes, but then John would see that watchful gaze when Faith was worried about someone and that, that was all Sherlock.

Phinn, on the other hand, was a stubborn little git who was so eager to chase after his older brother and sister that John had nightmares about him sneaking into their playschool bags some days. If John had thought Teagan was the spitting image of Sherlock he had been sadly mistaken. His youngest's favourite phrase was "I'll do" and he used it with a frightening frequency.

Sometimes, watching the two of them, John was reminded of another pair who had once raced about the flat, one demanding ridiculous things and the other just going along for the ride.

* * *

When Teagan started at school something in John snapped a little and he spent most of the day trying not to sob all over the flat.

Sherlock would never see her in a school uniform, never bitch about primary knowledge and she didn't remember him enough to cause the awkward conversations that John had once expected.

None of them would. They wouldn't be that odd and wild family that knew more about corpses than the Adam's family and could start world war three with very little effort. Instead they were just the sad little family, torn up by a suicide and tragedy.

* * *

"Is that Dad?" Callum asked clamouring over the sofa as he tried to see what John was reading. "It looks like him."

A retraction. Years too late, but a retraction, detailing Moriarty's criminal network, his terrorist links and sheer cruelty.

By Kitty Riley

John could have choked her with it.

"Yeah," John reached out absently to stroke his son's hair.

"He's in a newspaper?" Teagan asked in awe. "Is he famous?"

"Is he no longer dead?" Callum asked almost at the same time.

"He…you don't come back from being dead," John said softly. "But once upon a time…yes. He was famous. He could solve crimes that no-one else could and…" he struggled for a moment. "A bad man was very jealous of that so he tried to make people believe that your Dad wasn't really that clever and was just tricking everyone."

"But he wasn't," Teagan said solemnly. "He was just that clever," she said, using his words from the slightly edited stories about Sherlock's cases.

"Exactly," John tapped her nose.

"Can I have cake?" Callum asked suddenly.

"Strawberry," Teagan specified quickly, but Callum pulled a face.

"No, chocolate," he said, sticking his tongue out.

John looked at the paper and closed it.

What fucking difference did it make now?

* * *

"Eat your carrots," John said to Phinn.

"No."

With years of experience in the matter, John reached out and took a carrot from Phinn's plate. The two year old scowled and held out an imperious hand. "Mine," he said looking at the stolen carrot.

John handed it to him and picked up another from the plate, watching Phinn's hazel eyes narrow at the game. There was a suspicious look on his face as he munched on the carrot slowly, as if plotting.

Callum picked up a carrot as well and shoved it in his mouth with a grin.

Phin turned to stare, wide eyed and slightly peeved if his expression was anything to go by. Then he yanked up his drink and clutched it to his chest, eying them all suspiciously.

Then Teagan took one too.

_P_hinn raised upset eyes to John, his frown that of a grumpy old man's.

"Eat your carrots Phinn. If you don't want them someone else will have them," John said, far too aware of the walking bin that was his eldest son.

With a resigned air, Phinn jammed the carrots in his mouth and then solemnly held out one to Faith who ate it just as solemnly and handed one back to him.

They could be cute when they wanted to be.

Standing, John pressed a kiss to the little boy's brown hair. "Well done," he praised, before ruffling Faith's hair.

* * *

Three years.

It had taken almost three years to hunt them down, to wipe out anyone that had known Moriarty's conditions upon the roof.

And then to escape-

He cut the thought off viciously, still infuriated with himself. He could have returned at the start of the year if he had done better, rather than in October.

He was tired and sore, his back still aching from a fall out of a window and onto a skip and his thigh still throbbing from a close call with a knife. He was littered with scars now. Burns, knifes, bullets. He'd broken three bones since he'd last seen John and dislocated his shoulder twice.

In all truth, he should be seeking medical attention. And he would before he went back but…

He'd had to see them.

The park that was about two minutes from the flat was clearly a favourite for his children.

Teagan…his tiny Teagan, all grown up and in a school uniform looking impossibly old. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail as she chased Callum who was holding something in his hands and looking thrilled about it. Behind her was another little boy, trying to keep up from his determined little face and just as desperately curious to see what was in Callum's hand.

John sat close by with their youngest daughter on his lap as he tied her shoes and chatted to her. She watched the others and, as soon as John had finished with her shoes, she wriggled off him and ran after her brothers and sister.

She'd fallen earlier. He could deduce that from her hands and knees and the slightly wary look she gave a bump in the grass, but her cheeks weren't tear stained and she'd seemed eager enough to keep going.

Callum threw a cheeky grin over his shoulder and shot across to John. He could just catch the glare on Faith's face as Callum took John's lap and showed him what he had in his hand.

John pulled a face and smiled, amused by whatever it was. He held Callum's wrist and lowered his hand so the rest of their children could see whatever it was.

Teagan let her younger siblings just a little bit closer to Callum's hand and pressed against John, who relaxed fractionally. Pride blasted through him at his eldest daughter who must have helped John out so much. When Phinneas wandered off, bored or sulking (Sherlock couldn't tell) she rolled her eyes and bounded after him, like a sheepdog herding back a lost member of the flock. And, from the exchange of glances between her and John, it was obviously not the first time.

"Sherlock."

Mycroft. His brother sat next to him in the car quietly, letting Sherlock stare at his family through the tinted glass.

"You need medical attention."

Sherlock shook his head, leaning against the window, unable to tear his eyes away from what he was seeing.

He'd missed out on so much.

He touched a hand to the glass, wishing it were as simple as just walking over and joining in. John looked older, thinner and subdued. Protective; his eyes kept scanning the area every so often for dangers to their brood.

"We need to make plans for your return," Mycroft tried again.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

* * *

Author's Note

Chapters will be as follows:

2. Anger

3. Melancholy

4. Empathetic

5. Intuitive

6. Stubborn

7. Obsessive

8. Nervous


	2. Anger

Emotional Times:

Anger

* * *

Incandescent with rage, John stormed into the hospital.

The news? He'd had to find out from the fucking news? The lunch time news that had thrown up a picture of Sherlock entering the hospital with Mycroft at his side?

He'd thrown that fucking stolen ashtray at the television.

It hadn't helped.

Mycroft had better have dug up his corpse and performed a Frankenstein experiment because otherwise John was going to murder them both.

"Excuse me? Are you looking for-"

John brushed past them. Absolutely nothing was stopping him, not even Mycroft who was rushing towards him looking more flustered than John could ever remember seeing.

"John? We never meant for you to find out like thi-"

Seeing red with rage, John punched him, hard, and watched, not even close to satisfied as Mycroft slid down the wall. He didn't even bother to savour the sight of Mycroft crumpled on the floor and instead strode past him.

"You," John snarled, walking into the room where Sherlock was putting on his coat. "You. How could you?" he launched forward and shoved Sherlock against the wall. "How could you?" he asked, shaking him.

"John-"

Snarling, John shoved him back one last time then wrenched free, leaving Sherlock wide eyed and slumped heavily on the wall.

"Three years," he roared. "Three years and you've been alive all this time."

Sherlock said nothing.

"You're meant to be my partner, my mate. Their father. The twins…Jesus, Sherlock, I nearly lost them because of what happened. I was pregnant-"

"I know," Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I could have held them in my sodding hand they were so small-" John shook his head. "You…you left us."

"No I-"

"Too domestic for you, was it?" John asked, picking up the chart and throwing it at him. Sherlock made no move to dodge the projectile and just flinched when it struck his chest. "Too fucking boring?" he asked grabbing at something else to throw.

A glass shattered, barely missing Sherlock's shoulder.

"Do you have any idea what it's been like? To dread the day they learned the word suicide and I'd have to tell them that we weren't enough? Now what? What do I tell them? That you went gallivanting for three years and couldn't be bothered to check in?" This time John picked up a vase of flowers and Sherlock's eyes widened as he ducked. A second later, the glass vase rained down water and shards as it crashed against the wall where his head had been, soaking him.

"John," Sherlock looked up, hair dripping wet and pale faced. "Please-"

"You go to hell and you don't come near my children," John snarled. "You or that fucking brother of yours. Got it?"

"John-"

"Drop dead," John suggested viciously. "Oh, wait, I forgot. You can come back from that."

And with that, he slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Sitting in the midst of the glass and water, Sherlock drew up his knees and slumped. How long he sat on the floor he had no idea, but slowly the door opened and Mycroft's expensive shoes whispered as he stepped forward.

"Are you hurt?"

Not in any way Mycroft would understand. "He missed." For the most part. Looking up, Sherlock blinked at the bloody nose that was dripping onto his brother's usually immaculate tie and shirt.

God he adored John.

* * *

It took an hour before John crashed and collapsed on the bed sobbing. The twins were down with Mrs Hudson who had looked terrified when she'd heard John destroy the television. Callum and Teagan were probably already back but it seemed as if Mrs Hudson had held onto them.

Seemed that way.

He was dimly aware of the door creaking open and a little person snuggling under his arm.

Callum.

Moments later Teagan appeared behind him, snuggling close too so that they were both in John's arms.

"Daddy?" Callum looked wide-eyed and fearful. "You're not s'pposed to cry."

He couldn't even summon up the words to reassure his son. Pulling them both closer, John buried his face in their hair and breathed them in.

How could he have done this to them?

* * *

His key still worked.

Mrs Hudson's flat door was ajar as he walked towards it and slowly nudged it open further. He could hear her on the phone, her tone indicating her shock.

She knew as well then.

To the side, he spotted-

The twins.

They were both fast asleep, snuggled under a blanket as the TV flickered quietly in the background.

His vision blurred as he moved close to them, sniffing at their little bodies to absorb being home.

Faith and Phinneas.

Trust and belief.

He'd had enough experience picking up two children when Callum and Teagan had been around this age. Scooping the toddlers up he let their heads rest on his shoulder and closed his eyes, savouring the feel of having them in his arms for the first time just as Mrs Hudson's quiet murmur stopped.

When he opened his eyes she was staring at him.

He waited.

"You'd never have left them if there was another way," she said firmly to him.

"No," he agreed, voice almost breaking over the word.

"He knows that," she said gently. "He's just hurt-"

"I know."

She stepped close to him and reached up her hands, cupping his face to study him. "What did you do?" she whispered.

"Killed everyone who threatened my family," he said, meeting her stare for stare.

She stroked a thumb over his cheek. "Quite right," she said with a nod.

* * *

He took the twins upstairs, deciding to leave going to John until the children were settled. However, the moment he got up the stairs it was painfully obvious that John had moved into one of the upper bedrooms and out of the one they had shared.

Hurt by it, Sherlock took the twins into their room and put them in their beds, drawing the duvets over them and pressing a kiss to their hair.

"Who are you?"

Startled, he turned to look at Teagan who stood in the doorway, rocking back and forth as she held onto the door frame.

It was agony. He'd hoped…stupidly hoped that she would remember him, that she would look at him and just know who he was and how easily she had sat on his lap and commanded his attention.

And if she didn't remember him, then there was hardly any chance that Callum would.

"I…" What was he meant to say? He needed to talk to John first before…

But damn it, she was his daughter too.

"No-one."

John appeared behind her, eyes red and face showing evidence that he had been crying. Teagan hovered uncertainly, looking between them.

"He looks like Dad," she said looking up. "But he's in heaven."

That did it. Sherlock sunk down to his knees and almost struggled for breath.

"Go to bed Teagan," John said, his voice like steel. "You," he said, indicating Sherlock, "get up."

* * *

John followed him down and then folded his arms threateningly when Sherlock paused on the landing to the sitting room and kitchen.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, staring at the floor, hating the sight of John like this.

"Sorry?" John breathed, incredulous. "You're sorry? For what Sherlock? For making Lestrade watch you fake a suicide? For leaving us? For the fact that the kids have no memory of you bar what I've told them? For letting me think I failed you? Tell me Sherlock, which one are you sorry for?"

"He'd sent out an order," Sherlock held onto the banister rail as his ribs sung in pain. "Our children John, he practically had a gun to their heads. What would you have had me do?"

John paled a little. "Told me," he hissed violently. "You should have told me."

"How?" Sherlock roared at him. "How was I meant to tell you any of it? The pregnancy was difficult enough without me-"

"Jumping off a roof? Yeah, it was," John yelled back. "Thank god you came back as quickly as possible to help."

With a disbelieving laugh, Sherlock dug into his pocket and held up the stupid, idiotic brick of a phone that had dominated his whole life. "Here," he said, holding it up. "This. This," he shook it at John. "One text, and a phone book of assassins. If I showed my face do you know what it said, how much it offered?"

John's eyes flickered to it and he said nothing.

"The entirety of his estate," Sherlock shook his head. "For the death of my entire family."

John reached out to grab at the side of the wall, looking utterly rocked.

"What would you have had me do?" Sherlock repeated.

"Honestly?" John breathed. "In that case I have no idea how you risked surviving that fall."

Sherlock blinked at him. "I had no way of knowing if he would keep his word," he said, suddenly feeling a dawning numbness.

"Well…" John sighed. "I suppose a liar always can recognise another liar. Get out."

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"They are my children too," Sherlock hissed at him. "You are mine-"

"We aren't your toys," John snapped at him. "You don't just pick us up when you damn well feel like it."

He was getting tired. Sherlock could see it as clear as day; John was ready to crash.

But, from the look on his face, it seemed that John would rather fight until he collapsed than let Sherlock have an inch.

"I'll return tomorrow," Sherlock said, backing away.

"Really? Tomorrow or ten years?" John threw at him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and then launched forward a little, needing to make John understand and ignoring the pain the movement caused. "Be angry," he said fiercely, "Be furious, be enraged, be merciless. But know this; even if I never manage to make it up to you, even if I have to spend the rest of my life apologising to you and begging for scraps of our children's lives, I would do it a thousand times over. I would rather have you alive, hating me, than dead and loving me."

John stared at him, eyes bright. "You left us," he whispered. "You told me you would never leave and you did."

"I came back," Sherlock offered hoarsely.

John closed his eyes.

* * *

Next up: Melancholy


	3. Melancholy

Melancholy

* * *

The omega in him just wanted to curl up and whimper, to weep until his mate came, wrapped him up in his arms and promised to never leave again.

The human in him would rather eat rusted nails and roll around on hot coals before he let that happen.

But, in the dead of night, when the children were asleep and he had no-one left to fight it for, John buried his nose in the jumper he'd been wearing and deeply breathedin the smell of where his mate had last touched him.

It was such a mess.

The worst thing was that he knew somewhere in the back of his head that if their situations had been reversed he would have done exactly the same thing. Their children had been threatened, what wouldn't they do to protect them?

The worst thing was that he knew he could forgive that; eventually.

Pathetic.

* * *

Sherlock sat in Mycroft's kitchen, his nose almost touching the picture he was so close. It had been taken just before he had…left, all of them in the picture together in a rather candid shot that Lestrade had taken on his phone.

Sherlock had sat Teagan on the roof of a police car and stood behind her, keeping her steady. Callum was in her lap, giggling at something to the side (Sherlock had a vague memory that Anderson had been in that direction) while John stood next to Sherlock, trying to scold him for using the car as a seat and grinning the entire time. Lestrade, in a display of timing that outstripped his detective work, had taken the shot just as Sherlock and John had made eye contact.

Dragging his gaze away, he looked at the next picture in the album. The one of his family, just without him.

It had John, sat on the floor with Phinneas in his lap and he was obviously talking to the baby, a fond smile on his face as Phinneas's expression warred between a smile and a sulk. Standing next to John and behind Phinneas, Faith clutched John's sleeve and seemed to be adding her two pennies to the conversation with a serious look on her little face.

Callum was lying on his back, his gaze focused on John with a cheeky smile while Teagan sat on the other side of John, pressed up against him and sticking her tongue out at Callum.

A wave of pure…melancholy he supposed, slipped over him and he dropped the photo into the album to bury his face in his hands.

* * *

Sherlock had come by every day for two weeks, sometimes with milk, other times with little sweets or toys that he had found.

Alpha instincts, John supposed. Sherlock knew he had abandoned them and was now trying to show once again that he could provide and keep them all safe.

He always asked to see the children and never pushed it when John said no, but each and every time his shoulders slumped just a little further and his expression fell just a little more.

* * *

No.

No.

No.

He was hot.

No.

John gripped the edge of the chest of drawers, his knuckles white as he fumbled for the bottle of suppressors.

Why weren't they working?

He knew, in his heart he knew exactly why they weren't working, but God did he hope there was some other explanation than 'your mate has returned and suppressors mean jack shit when compared to that'.

He had a day, maybe two if Sherlock stayed the fuck away.

* * *

Which of course he didn't.

"John-" Sherlock's eyes widened. "You-"

"I'll manage," John snarled at him. "Don't even think about it."

* * *

Sherlock came back after the children were asleep.

"I swear to God," John hissed at him, trying to stay far enough away that the wonderful, delicious smell of home and excitement didn't affect him. "I swear Sherlock, I will never, ever forgive you if you're here to-"

"You'll come to me," Sherlock sounded miserable. "The instincts will swamp you, John. You know that."

"I don't want to have sex with you," John backed himself against the wall, knowing it wouldn't help.

Sherlock hesitated then dug into his pocket. "I…I tried to…I haven't tested them fully, but they are meant to take away the sexual element to a heat."

"They're illegal," John breathed. "Jesus, Sherlock. Illegal and a fucking fortune-"

Sherlock shrugged and placed the almost empty bottle of pills on the table between them. "Your decision," he said lightly, fingers tracing the edges. "I took them from an assassin."

Took? John tried to sidestep that little issue. "Side effects?" he asked looking at the bottle that probably cost as much as the entire flat.

"More aggressive to outsiders. We should tell everyone that under no circumstances are they to come over. Mrs Hudson will have to leave for the week. We will be utterly swamped by instincts and it may last longer than usual."

"The children?" John asked.

Sherlock hesitated, "I…I would suggest you let Mycroft take them out and then we take these. We would accept a family member taking them but it would be confusing-

"Harry." No way was he letting Mycroft near them.

Sherlock pulled a face, "Your sister with my children?"

"Your brother with mine?" John snapped back.

* * *

John woke up to a house without children and his mate far too far away.

Keening he slithered out of bed and scratched at the door, trying to remember…

Ah, yes, twist key, twist handle-

Then he was there.

His mate.

Delighted, John pushed forward and was engulfed in a hug. Breathing in his smell, John let out a noise of pure pleasure.

His alpha was upset, sad, guilty.

But he'd protected them and come home. That was good. He had a strong alpha, a clever alpha.

John nuzzled his neck and let out a rather content purr to let his alpha know that. In return he received a miserable whine and then his alpha started to scent him.

Pleased, John bared his throat submissively and waited, wriggling with eagerness and excitement.

His mate was back. And they would breed again and –

John suddenly whined and something trilled within him warningly at that thought.

No more. No more beautiful babies.

Suddenly disheartened he licked at his alpha's jaw in apology and was gently butted back by Sherlock's face. His alpha nuzzled his cheek comfortingly and pressed a half lick, half kiss to John's forehead.

Then went back to his careful cataloguing of the smells on John.

Back, back. He was back.

Interested, John started to return the favour. Mycroft's smell lingered on him and John sneezed at it in disgust. And below that-

John whined in panic.

Blood. Scarring. Puss. Antiseptic.

Completely forgetting how to use his hands properly, John ducked and nudged up the shirt enough to see bandages.

What?

A little more coherent suddenly, John pushed up the shirt all the way, gaping at the scars and the bandages…

Torture.

He'd seen it once before in Afghanistan, on a young lad that had come in.

Someone had hurt Sherlock. Tortured him.

"Unimportant," Sherlock breathed, sounding ragged, his eyes slightly glazed with the drug they'd taken.

"How long?" John breathed, omega instincts begging to lick at the wounds to make them better.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered at the strain of keeping his mind in-tact. Then he whined at John and tried to curl up around him.

"Mine," he whispered. "Please."

John let them curl up and twine together.

"Mine," he agreed happily.

* * *

He woke in bed with Sherlock curled into him, his head under John's chin and his hands clutching at his shirt.

Suddenly alert, John craned his neck and pulled up Sherlock's shirt again to study the injuries.

"Five months," Sherlock said to his chest. "And they set me back a further four because of it."

"These are recent," John said slowly, stroking the edges of the bandages carefully.

"Moriarty's executor objected to me attempting to kill him. As did his body guards."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock sighed against him, tightening his grip as if expecting to be thrown off. "I still left you," he said quietly. "Left them."

There was very little John could say in response to that.

* * *

"Daddy?"

John looked over Sherlock's hair at his eldest son. "Did you have fun?" he asked.

God knew how many people they'd been bounced between.

Callum nodded, stepping forward. "Who's that?"

"This?" John looked down at Sherlock's sleeping face and then up at Teagan who was lurking in the doorway behind her brother. "Do you…" he shifted and tried to sit up, frowning when Sherlock whimpered and tried to bury himself further into John. "Do you remember the stories I told you about your Dad?"

Callum nodded and he could see the lurking suspicion in Teagan's face.

"Well…" John searched his mind. "I told you that a bad man wanted people to believe your Dad was a bad man and so he told a lot of lies."

Callum nodded again, now peering to get a glimpse of Sherlock.

"And, what I didn't know was that there were more bad people who your Dad had to stop, so he went off to fight them." Unconsciously he stroked the bandages and frowned as he found the ridge of a scar just above. "To keep us safe."

"In heaven?" Callum pulled a face, as if doubting that.

"I…" How was he meant to explain this, "I didn't know where he had gone," he settled for saying. "But he's come home now."

Callum's eyes turned huge and he stood up on tip toe to get a glimpse of Sherlock's face. "Really?" he said with awe.

Teagan stayed at the door, staring at Sherlock solemnly.

"Really," John said with a smile, reaching out to stroke Callum's curls.

Looking a little nervous, Callum clambered up carefully onto the bed and bent over Sherlock to study him. Over his shoulder, John inclined his head to Teagan, trying to encourage her to come over.

Sherlock jolted awake, twisting to look at Callum in surprise and then stared in wonder.

"Hello Dad," Callum beamed at him. "Did you get all the bad guys?"

Sherlock glanced at John helplessly.

"Yeah," John nodded, glancing at Teagan again, hoping against hope-

But she stayed at the door, watching.

Callum nodded at the idea and reached out for Sherlock's hair. "You have my hair," he accused Sherlock. "Tiggie had my hair but then it got long," he complained.

A shaking hand rose to stroke through the hair in question. "You're quite right," Sherlock said, his voice wavering. "Same hair."

"So, did you catch all the bad guys?" Callum asked.

Sherlock nodded, his fingers tracing down Callum's cheek as if unable to stop contact now that he had started.

"Come on," John mouthed to Teagan who took a hesitant step forward.

Callum shifted a bit closer. "No-one has your eyes though," he looked up at John. "Why not?"

"It's um," John dragged his gaze from Teagan, "It's a bit of a lucky dip. Phin doesn't look particularly like either of us," he said with a shrug.

"Phin," Sherlock murmured. "You call him Phin."

"He's my brother," Callum announced proudly. "Are you his Dad too?"

Sherlock nodded fiercely. Teagan looked as if she were biting her lip.

"Why don't you keep Dad company?" John asked, wriggling back so he could escape the bed. "You can tell him all about playschool if you like."

Callum's eyes lit up. "Do you know why they won't let you drink paint water?" he asked Sherlock sincerely. "It looks like Daddy's coffee."

* * *

John scooped Teagan up and took her out and downstairs. At the very bottom of the stairs, Mrs Hudson lurked hesitantly.

_Five minutes,_ he mouthed at her as he carried Teagan into the living room.

"I'm sorry," he said to her, sitting them on the sofa. "I know…I know it must have been confusing and scary when you first saw him but…I was a bit angry and sometimes I say silly things when I'm angry."

Teagan buried her face in his neck. "He made you cry," she said suddenly. "He came back and then you cried."

John leaned them both back and rocked her gently. "Oh sweetheart…you don't have to worry about things like that," he closed his eyes. "You don't have to look after me."

"I don't want him here if he makes you cry," she told him, suddenly fierce.

"Oh," John let out a long, sad breath. "Tiggie darling, I…I was angry at him for going away and I still am but…he's still your Dad and he loves you very much."

"Don't care," came the stubborn reply. "I'll look after you Daddy."

* * *

"Callum," John watched Sherlock and their son from the doorway. "Mrs Hudson has made you dinner, off you go."

Amazingly, despite the offer of food, Callum hesitated.

"It's pizza," John added.

Sherlock was sadly abandoned for the meal. But Callum paused in the doorway and glanced back.

"Will I see you again?" he asked curiously.

Sherlock looked as if he'd just been hit. But, with a hesitant look at John, he nodded. "Yes."

Callum beamed and dashed off and Sherlock stared at the spot he had been in. "Teagan?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Upset." There was hardly any point in lying about it. "She saw a lot more than the others. Remembers a lot more." John leaned against the door. "You should go."

"John, please just let me-"

"You can't just walk back in and pick up where you left off," John said staring at the wall. "And…the kids need time, I need time. So do you. We'll…we'll work something out."

"Like?" Sherlock demanded, sitting up.

"Like getting to know the kids again, having one or two over at a time so they can get used to you. Like you and me…I don't know…" John shook his head. "But we need to do this right Sherlock. We need to do this carefully. And you need help."

"Therapy?" Sherlock sneered, sounding like his old self.

John slammed a fist against the wall. "I'm sorry, did 'I'll do anything' stand as code for 'as long it's something I want to do'?"

Sherlock, mollified, shook his head. "No," he said softly.

"Go home," John said, exhausted suddenly. "Please just go home."

Sherlock let out a rather bitter laugh and sat up properly, shaking his head. "I'm trying," he said, looking up at John.

"Try harder," John suggested.


	4. Empathy

Emotional Times:

Empathy

* * *

"_What's your name?"_

_It hurt. It was agonisingly painful to have his hands stretched up above his head and his ankles strapped down to the floor. His captor (Simon Dublois; married three times, killed second spouse-)_

_No. Don't see it, don't even think it._

"_John," he said again for the hundredth time. "John Davenport, please, why are you doing this-"_

"_I'm telling you," Alice Hunt was revealed as Simon circled, the lash in his hand sweeping the floor. "If he's lying he's damn well sticking to it."_

"_The DNA tests?" Dublois asked._

"_Not a match," she shrugged. "They could be fake. Easy enough to do it. Look at Adler, years ago."_

"_Please," he whimpered pathetically. "I'll do anything, please just stop-"_

_Dublois __stopped __in front of him again, __tipping __his face up with the handle of the whip pressed under Sherlock's chin._

"_Your hair is dyed," Dublois said, studying him. "Why?"_

_Sherlock let himself blink in confusion. "I...I prefer it-"_

_A knee to his groin had him gasping and trying desperately to double over, pulling on the chains that kept him open and vulnerable._

"_Holmes was meant to be a good liar," Hunt said, lighting up a cigarette. "Why bother with this? Why not just send the picture and get the text sent out?"_

"_Because Mycroft Holmes will rain down an unholy vengeance upon us," Dublois said. "I'd prefer to have absolute proof that this is Holmes and ensure that money is ours rather than risk everything for nothing."_

"_Please," Sherlock sobbed. "Please, let me go."_

_Hunt suddenly smirked and stood, guiding Dublois back to whisper something in his ear._

_When they left five minutes later, Sherlock stared around the room, letting himself see all that he had ignored during his ruse and then closed his eyes._

_She'd left clues for an escape._

_Don't see, don't see, don't see._

_He could escape._

_He could escape and if he did they would know and then-_

_John._

_Don't see._

Sherlock jerked himself awake and stared at the bland ceiling in Mycroft's ostentatious living room.

He'd fallen asleep.

That had been a mistake. Sleep was a dangerous game at the moment and not the kind of dangerous he welcomed.

Frustrated, he smoothed a hand over his face and curled up, relishing the fact that he could.

* * *

Callum let out a very long and heavy sigh as he draped himself over a chair in a manner very reminiscent of his other father.

"You all right?" John asked, glancing at his son.

"No," came the sullen reply

Callum looked so despondent that John quickly put away the newspaper. The days of actually finishing the damn thing cover to cover was a distant, fond memory now. Stepping close, John ran a hand through the wild curls.

"What's wrong then?"

Callum turned big hazel eyes up to him. "Teagan keeps getting older than me," he whined. "I'll never catch her up."

John's hand stilled and he blinked at his son. "I'm sorry?"

Callum threw him a patented Sherlock Holmes 'How can you be so thick' look that John had almost missed. "I almost caught her up and then she turned five and I'm only turning four." His chin jutted out. "I want to be five instead?"

"No," John said blankly. "No it doesn't…no."

"What if I clean my room?" Callum asked hopefully.

Damn it, way too good an opportunity to be missed. "Maybe," John nodded. "I doubt it but there might be a tiny chance that if your room is cleaned a fairy might come along and make you five."

Callum met his gaze for an age, then pulled a disbelieving face. "You're silly," he announced, hopping off the chair and walking away, shaking his head.

Well…so much for that vague hope that one room was be tidied without his nagging.

Or Mrs Hudson's…

* * *

They'd started with coffee.

The minute his (his!) omega walked in, Sherlock snapped his head, turning a little to catch John's reflection in the mirror. Callum and Teagan were at playschool and school respectively and the twins at Mrs Hudson's while they napped.

It had been a good morning; John was chatting easily to the woman at the counter as he ordered his tea.

Tea. Money tight? Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table top. The Met needed to make up its mind about how it wanted to proceed with Sherlock on cases and he had to be very careful about clients at the moment.

"You look tired," John said as he sat down.

Sherlock shrugged, not wanting to discuss it.

Silence bloomed.

He hated it, despised it. There was too much that they were both avoiding, too much that needed to be said. Far too much to allow for simple coffee meetings.

"Callum demonstrated your 'people are stupid' glare today," John offered, smiling at the memory.

Sherlock resented the fact it was one he could not share. Even more, he railed against the fact he didn't know what to do with the information.

"It's his birthday next week-"

"I know," Sherlock said stiffly.

"Right," John drew in an annoyed breath. "I'll just sit here in silence then, shall I?"

That wasn't what he…Sherlock pressed his lips together and drew in a breath. "What are you doing for it?" he asked.

"He wants to have you over," John shifted uncomfortably. "And…and Mycroft." There was still anger in John's voice at the mention of Sherlock's brother. Mycroft hadn't been allowed to see the children since the day the news had broken Sherlock's return, such was John's fury.

"Will you permit that?"

John shot him a hurt look. "You think I'm that petty?"

"No," Sherlock said quietly. "I think you're that hurt."

Steely blue eyes met his and Sherlock swallowed tightly as John seemed to search him for something.

"What…" John let out a sigh. "What I'm about to say isn't meant to hurt you but-"

But. There was always something.

"-Teagan isn't…Teagan is having trouble with this." John put his mug down. "I think it would be good to have you over. And…" John winced, "thought it pains me to admit it, Mycroft will help. I…I had time to think and keeping you from them hurts them more than it…" John faded at that point a little, "than whatever point I was trying to prove. So, come over. And Mycroft can pay for pizza."

"Pizza?" Sherlock pulled a face.

"Mycroft can pay," John reiterated.

That helped somewhat.

"He was upset," John said after a moment. "Upset that he was turning four rather than five and wouldn't be able to catch Teagan up."

How could Callum be four already?

Something in his face must have resonated with John because he nodded emphatically. "I know," John said, taking a sip of tea. "I still can't get over the fact that the twins will be three-"

He cut himself off and looked away.

"I never meant to-"

"I know," John said tonelessly. "I know all that but…" he looked up, eyes bright. "But you did. And I can't change how that makes us feel."

Us?

It hurt.

"But," John let out a long, weary noise, "Life's too short to hold on to this Sherlock. We have four children and I'm not dragging them through screaming parents trying to tear each other apart. We try, we see what happens. But I would like them to know we can cope being in the same room-"

Wait, what?

Sherlock reached out for John's arm and grabbed at it, suddenly fearful. "Meaning?" he asked in a quick snap.

"It's been almost three years. My life's moved on and so has yours-"

"We were happy," Sherlock, dug his fingers in. "You know we were-"

"I'm not arguing that."

"-And we can be again."

John met his gaze steadily. "Why aren't you sleeping?" he asked.

Freezing, Sherlock unwound his fingers from John's arm and pulled back, looking away.

"Of all the people in the world Sherlock, you think I don't see symptoms of PTSD when I'm looking at them? You can't ask me to open up my life to you again, to trust you after everything you put me through and not offer something in return-"

Sherlock stood, slamming his hands on the table. "You have no concept of the things I did, of what I suffered to keep you and our children safe. I promised myself it would not touch you and it won't."

John didn't so much as blink, even as the conversation around them died at Sherlock's actions.

"Then you keep that wall up, if it's that important to you," John said sounding far too much at ease to be believed as he stood. "But I don't trust you and I never will if you don't let me in."

Sherlock stayed where he was, staring at John's now empty seat as John handed back his mug to the girl at the counter. His eyes flickered back slightly to the scars around his wrists and he closed his eyes at the sight.

* * *

Callum's birthday. The first he would have experienced in years and Sherlock hated the fact that he was oddly nervous about it. His children still seemed to be a little wary around him the last few times he had visited and he hated that even more.

When he opened the door to the building, his youngest son stared up at him curiously as his fingers toyed with a lego brick.

"'lo," Phin said, tilting his head and looking up with wide eyes.

It was more than he had received previously.

Taking a chance Sherlock knelt down with him, reaching out for a green brick that had fallen under the little side table. He offered it calmly to him and watched Phin glance between the two, as if weighing up his options.

Sherlock waited, fascinated to see his son's little face twisted in concentration. Suddenly the boy laboured to his feet and peered around the brick as if to examine it better. After a minute or so, Sherlock turned the brick over to allow him to see the bottom.

Phin let out a squeal of surprise and did the same with his own brick, bumping them against each other, then manoeuvring them until the bricks were perfectly lined up with each other.

Seemingly satisfied now, Phin clutched his original brick to his chest. "This one," he announced, sounding pleased.

"You could have both," Sherlock said, marvelling at the boy's mind.

Interested, Phin peered again at the lego bricks, a sudden shyness passed over his face.

"You have," he ordered with a rare little smile. "Dad," he added, looking a little curious about the word.

Yes. "Well done," Sherlock nodded, stroking back brown hair.

"Mine," Phin announced seeming more and more pleased. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he toddled off to Mrs Hudson's open door. Sherlock watched him go as he slipped the brick into his pocket and waited.

Seconds later Phin and Faith popped their heads around the door and babbled something at each other.

Twin language?

Fascinated by the idea, Sherlock sat absolutely still as the twins peered at him then babbled at each other seriously.

When they seemed to have reached a consensus, they both cautiously walked over to him, Faith a little behind Phin as if a touch more shy. Phin however, had no such compunctions and toddled closer and closer before he plunked his bottom down by Sherlock's hand and pressed his own tiny hands to Sherlock's.

Amused, Sherlock let him get on with it and turned his attention to his youngest daughter and the apple of Mycroft's eye.

She had John's colouring and the shape of his face. The same caring, concerned look that Sherlock had seen John exhibit with patients or with their children. Carefully, she made her way over him, stepping over his limbs until she was on his lap and staring intently into his eyes.

It was slightly unnerving.

Turning her head, she babbled at Phin who let out a long huff.

If he'd been there from the start, would Sherlock have broken their code by now? Would he be able to understand these little chats the pair had that were entirely separate from the world?

Faith sat down on his lap with the same lack of elegance Phin had displayed and, with a giggle, started to wriggle until she was under his coat. Phin let out a laugh and moved to join her. They then seemed to play some odd game of peek-a-boo with his coat that had the pair of them in hysterics.

He was so focussed on listening to their chatting, that he almost missed the footsteps of a certain four year old as he rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder to peer down at what was going on.

"What they doing?" Callum asked curiously.

"Exploring," Sherlock turned his head to press a kiss to the curls there. "Happy Birthday Callum."

"I'm only four," was the unimpressed reply. "I really wanted to be five. Uncle Mycroft could have made me five," he added petulantly.

"There would have been a price to pay," Sherlock said sincerely and glanced down as the twins stopped playing to watch him intently.

"I would have tidied my room." Callum sounded very sincere about the matter. "But then Daddy mentioned fairies, which is really silly. I think he was trying to be funny."

* * *

Somehow, Sherlock managed to relocate them upstairs where John was sat at the table with Teagan in his lap, talking to her gently.

Tiggie.

The moment she saw him, she buried her head in John's shoulder.

Something in Sherlock sunk in disappointment.

"Show," Faith tugged at his trouser.

Phin nodded seriously. "Yes."

Lost, Sherlock looked over at John for help.

"Their room," his mate explained. "They want to show you their room."

Ah.

With a last, longing look at Teagan and John, Sherlock followed the twins up, amused by their stair climbing ability that seemed to be flopping up the stairs.

* * *

Phin licked the topping off of his pizza and Faith followed suit after a thoughtful gaze at them all. Callum tried to roll his up into a sausage shape and then ate John's while Teagan seemed to take great pride in the fact that she could eat it properly and great amusement in Mycroft using a knife and fork.

She avoided eye contact with him the entire meal.

John avoided Mycroft's. Every time they got close to interacting, Sherlock could see John's mouth firm in disapproval.

"Can I have yours too, Dad?" Callum asked bounding over.

Sherlock nodded and let Callum settle on his lap and attack the barely touched slice. Across the table, John looked at the pizza and then at Sherlock.

With a disgusted look, he stood and walked into the room that had once been theirs.

* * *

"You gave your pizza to him."

John shook his head as Sherlock closed the door behind him. "That's not even close to my problem. And I do not want to discuss it now, not here."

"When then?" Sherlock asked, folding his arms. "You tell me we have to move slowly and the next moment you're telling me that you aren't sure if we'll even get back together. If I leave it any longer you might suddenly decide to skip off to China."

John pressed his lips together looking murderous. "You're unbelievable," he muttered under his breath.

"What have I done now?"

"You're not sleeping or eating or solving cases," John spat at him. "Is it some grand plan to fuck me over completely because the omega in me is begging to be allowed to look after you or do you actually not give a damn any more about whether you live or not because if you have come back here just to leave again-"

"I came back for you and for them-"

"And a fucking fine amount of use you've been since you came back."

Sherlock flinched.

"Don't," John snarled, "Don't you dare look at me like that. You want to wallow in pity then tough. I couldn't. I had to get up in the morning to keep the kids happy and healthy, I had to push through it for our family. I haven't got the time, Sherlock, to be chasing after you, to be looking after you. I have four children, bills, a job. I cannot physically pull you up too."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

John let out a frustrated sound. "I don't know what happened to you, Sherlock. You won't ask for help and I can't mother you to do so."

"You've know what happened," Sherlock said quietly, looking at him.

John searched his gaze and seemed to deflate slightly. "Captured," he said eventually. "You were captured."

"And all that goes with it," Sherlock said, studying the bookshelf filled with children's tales.

"I…" John's voiced wavered a little and, when Sherlock looked over, he was clenching his fists and looking down.

Fighting his instincts to soothe and comfort.

"I…God you have no idea how much I want to help you," John whispered. "And it's not just…I hate the idea of you in pain like this but…" John raised his gaze again. "Pity is a bad basis of a relationship. Sherlock. And if I…"

"I know," Sherlock focused all his attention on the book of Fairy Tales in front of him that Mycroft had bought Teagan.

"You'll drain me dry," John said slowly. "I can help you, but I can't…I can't do it all. I can't chase after you now."

And didn't that sum them up perfectly at the moment.

* * *

"Are you crying?"

Teagan.

Sherlock shook his head, staring down the stair case he was sat half way down. "You should be in bed," he said softly.

"Daddy cries at night sometimes." She seemed to brave another step towards him.

"Recently?" He hated himself for asking it.

"Yes. He cried in the afternoon once," Teagan sounded worried. "You make him cry," she added stubbornly.

Sherlock could do nothing but nod.

He'd almost thought she'd gone again but he heard a creak as she stood on the step his back was leaning against. "But…you're not supposed to be upset too," she said, sounding confused.

Sherlock almost smiled at her logic. "Because I'm the bad guy?" he asked softly.

She was enough like John that she hesitated at agreeing to that.

"I left," he said, looking down still. "To keep you all safe. And to keep you safe I had to become a bit bad and meet bad people. And now…you're all safe and I'm the only thing hurting you."

"Are you sorry you left?" she asked.

He turned, looking up at her as she stood, arm weaved through the banister and standing on the skirting of the stairs.

"More than you can ever know," he said sincerely. "But I had to go."

"Are you mad that Daddy's angry?" she asked him, eyes large.

"No." Frustrated, upset, hurt but not angry.

"I don't want you to hurt my Daddy," Teagan suddenly glared at him.

"Good," Sherlock swallowed back the urge to pull her forward and hold her. Hold her as tight as he could until she loved him as much as she loved John.

She stared at him and then turned, dashing up the stairs. At the penultimate step she hesitated and turned back.

"I don't want you to cry either though," she said, unsure as she looked at him. "You had a funny laugh," she added before vanishing.

Funny laugh?

Sherlock leaned forward, picking up the smell of the little girl that had been born upstairs, the little girl that had been the first perfect product of his and John's love.

She was scared. Confused and so desperate to help.

He was the parent, not her.

Sherlock steeled himself and took a deep breath.

Enough.


	5. Innovative

Emotional Times:

Innovation

* * *

**December**

It was snowing.

Sherlock stood with his head against the window, staring out at the flurry blanketing London. It was a rarity in itself; only when it was evening and thick did the snow settle and last.

And it was lasting.

With a smile he picked up his coat and turned to the door.

* * *

Freezing cold hands shook John from his dreams and jolted him out of sleep. Bewildered, he stared up at the very Sherlock-esque shadow.

"What-"

"It's snowing," Sherlock said from above him. "I want to take the children out."

Rolling over, half asleep, John waved a hand at him. "Mm," he said, already relishing the warmth from snuggling back into the blanket.

There was a brief press of lips against his neck and a long sigh from above him. The faintest hint of words that John hadn't heard in far too long and then John was left to his peace and quiet.

* * *

Wait!

John snapped his eyes open and stared at the clock.

00.05am.

Sitting up and entirely unsure if it had been a dream, John hesitantly looked around the bedroom, hoping to spot a clue that it had been one way or the other-

He could smell Sherlock.

Lurching out of bed, John padded out and stared with a sigh at the landing strewn with pyjamas.

Fantastic.

* * *

At the park all he had to do was follow the delighted shrieks. It was only when he came to the edge of the clearing that he spotted them and the sight made him stop dead.

It was amazing.

Sherlock, clad in his bloody coat, scarf and gloves, was kneeling very seriously with the twins as they rolled what was likely to be the start of a snowman's head. Teagan and Callum had very proudly created the belly and were trying to jab in sticks as the arms. Sherlock, somehow, was splitting his attention between all of them and adapting at a moment's notice. Faith was half in his lap, snuggled against him and occasionally patting the snow down while Phin looked determined to compete with the body of the snowman from the look on his little face.

Despite being out of bed at past midnight on a school night, John couldn't find it within himself to be mad, not when he could see how much they were all enjoying themselves.

Still, payback had to occur.

Dipping down he piled snow into a gloved hand and made three snowballs, tightly packing the snow together.

Then, with an aim Sherlock would never be able to match, threw one and hit him perfectly in the face, making Faith gasp, then shriek with laughter.

The others stopped, looking a little torn between finding it just as funny and being a little worried as to who was throwing the snowball.

Sherlock wiped the snow from his face in an attempt to regain some dignity and huffed. Loudly. "Must you be so childish, John?"

Stepping out from the treeline and letting the park light catch him, John pretended to weigh it up, then tossed another snowball perfectly at Sherlock's face again.

"Do it again," Callum begged, dashing over to him. "Can I do it?"

"If you think you can-" John stopped and gasped as a snowball thudded just a little below his neck, the odd flake darting under his scarf to catch his skin.

"I really wouldn't," he warned Sherlock. "My aim is far superior to yours."

"And my grasp of strategy better than yours," Sherlock replied, letting Faith stand on her feet before he stood. Their daughter wobbled a little and then seemed fascinated by the way she sunk a little into the snow, lifting up each wellie-booted foot to study.

"So superior you thought to make one more," John muttered and then lobbed the last one at Sherlock.

What surprised both of them was that seconds after John's hit Sherlock's face, another one hit his shoulder.

Apparently Callum had chosen his side!

Sherlock nodded to himself, then pounced. The pair of them thudded down into the snow while Callum shrieked his approval and Phin toddled over to help Sherlock.

Traitor!

In the end even Teagan was giggling as Sherlock ended up on top of John using the fact that he was all length to twist until John had no choice but to sigh and wriggle in the cold snow.

"Yield," Sherlock suggested, looking down as Phin sat heavily in the snow, seemingly happy with the state of events.

John smiled and, in a move from his army days that made his back hiss in warning, flipped Sherlock off and onto the floor, rolling quickly to pin him down.

"That was awesome," Callum cheered, dancing around Teagan who giggled in delight at the shock on Sherlock's face.

"You do it," Phin demanded of Sherlock, looking utterly sure there was no way Sherlock could fail.

"Draw?" Sherlock asked, sniffing at John.

"I think you'll find I won," John corrected, sitting back a little. Faith peered over and, for protection, John picked her up and sat her in front of him on Sherlock's chest. Laughing, Teagan dashed over and sat on one of Sherlock's arms and Callum, catching onto the game, sat on the other arm.

They all looked at Phin who still sat in the snow, gazing at them all with a suspicious glare. He hauled himself to his feet, padded over and patted a snow covered gloved hand onto Sherlock's face.

"Silly Dad," he said in a sad voice, and then scrambled up to join his twin, looking utterly pleased with himself.

"We caught you," Callum announced gleefully. "Can't run away now."

Sherlock caught John's gaze and held it steadily. "No running," he agreed mildly.

The mood suddenly spoiled as the world came crashing back, John stood, lifting the twins with him. "That was never the problem," he said quietly.

The kids suddenly sobered, sensing the shift in mood and John was very aware that he had four pairs of wide eyes fixed upon him. Sherlock didn't move but kept his gaze riveted on John.

God, he hated feeling like he was the bad guy. Frustrated, John stared off at the trees, pressing an absent kiss to Phin's hair as Faith snuggled into the crook of his neck and yawned deeply.

"Hot Chocolate?" John offered, peering down to the twin's little faces. At the corner of his eye he could see Callum nod eagerly while Teagan looked worried still.

"Dad do it," Phin demanded stubbornly, leaning and reaching for Sherlock. Looking rather surprised, Sherlock scrambled to his feet and held out his arms for their youngest.

Phin went without complaint, latching onto Sherlock like he was a spider monkey and was trying to dig a hole into Sherlock's shoulder from the way he kept nuzzling in. Strangely, both Callum and Teagan hovered around John as if nervous about something.

Not entirely sure how to get rid of the sudden thick tension, John rested a reassuring hand on Teagan's shoulder. "Hold Callum's hand, Tiggie," he said, trying to lighten his tone. But his daughter and son just nodded seriously and obediently held on to each other.

They walked almost in silence. Callum and Teagan were whispering to each other and Faith fell asleep as John walked. Behind him, he could hear Phin rattle off instructions of some sort to Sherlock who was just as quiet as John.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the floor, staring.

John had fallen back to sleep, surrounded by their three eldest children who were all curled around him under the blanket. Phin snored in Sherlock's arms, his little fist gripping Sherlock's shirt tightly.

His family.

Slowly, aching from old wounds that now protested awkward positions in cold weather, Sherlock stood and walked over, searching for a spot to safely place his youngest. Callum looked like a squashed spider with his limbs flung everywhere.

John had always said they both slept as if to claim land.

Lifting up Callum's arm, Sherlock slid Phin down and watched as the little boy frowned and nosed at John's shirt. Sherlock watched him and sighed.

Of all of them, he was the one who presented the most as not quite a beta. The girls were rather safe, the gene having almost completely died out in the female code, though it wasn't entirely unheard of. Callum didn't show any signs at all of presenting as anything other than a beta and Sherlock smoothed a hand over his curls in relief at that thought.

Then he looked up at their other father, his mate, and frowned.

John had gone back on, and stayed back on, the suppressants but they didn't seem to mean a damn thing now that Sherlock had returned. John, once the heats had evened out, seemed to be on a two to three month cycle if they ignored the micro heats brought on during regular sex.

They'd used the drug up last time. He had no way of getting his hands on more – he'd been barely able to smuggle it back into the country himself. John would go into a proper heat next time and Sherlock had to make sure that he was willing to spend it with Sherlock.

He had to spend it with Sherlock, the alpha in him growled at the idea. No-one else was allowed to go near his mate or his children.

And he had to want to spend it with Sherlock. John's wide, horrified eyes last time still haunted Sherlock. He wasn't entirely sure they would come back from anything less than a fully consensual heat.

* * *

Stomping the snow off his shoes, John paused at the doorway as he smelt Sherlock, yet again.

Since the snow, Sherlock had been over more and more, taking care of the children and picking them up from various places. Thankfully he had shown no interest in feeding them yet; John could only imagine what Faith's face would be like as Sherlock introduced her to some rare Thai delicacy or marrow. Sherlock did have odd taste in his food on occasion.

What John was not prepared for, when he walked up the stairs and into the flat, was the whispered huddled conference occurring on the living room floor. Even Teagan was leaning forward earnestly.

"Daddy," Callum peered over and spotted him. "We're making a Santa Claus trap."

John paused as he went to set the shopping bag on the table. "Are you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

Teagan nodded seriously. "Dad's helping," she added graciously.

"Okay then," John shook his head and made himself a cuppa while they got on with it.

Somehow he ended up making one for Sherlock as well.

* * *

"So," John leaned back against the counter, feeling oddly wary without the kids around; Teagan and Callum were out while the twins were taking apart a dolls house upstairs. "Christmas."

Sherlock nodded. "I want to be here," he said levelling his chin as if prepared for a battle.

"Fine," John nodded. "Dinner as well? Are you eating again?"

"Yes," Sherlock seemed a little off balance, as if thrown by John's easy agreement. "And seeing a…someone."

Seeing someone? John turned and busied himself with moving various tins around. "Oh?" he said, hating that he sounded hurt.

"A therapist," Sherlock huffed. "Or…the closest approximation I can stand."

Oh. John nodded, relieved. "Right, yeah. That's good."

"You thought I meant that I was dating?"

Oh God, great. John wished he had something better to occupy his attention than the tea and coffee pots placement on the kitchen work surface. At least when Sherlock had lived in the flat there had always been something to tidy. "I…you're perfectly entitled to do so," John said carefully.

"Mm," Sherlock said suddenly sounding much closer. John could almost feel the warmth at his back and then could hear Sherlock smelling. Freezing, John gripped the counter; omega instincts telling him to turn and bare his throat, human instincts telling him to tell Sherlock to fuck right off with that.

Caught between the two, he just stayed still.

"But why would I?" Sherlock asked, his voice just above a purr. "When you smell like…" he stopped and then suddenly grabbed a fistful of John's jumper at a certain point and sniffed in a manner that was not at all seductive.

"Who's that?" Sherlock asked, growling.

"Sherlock," John sighed and rolled his eyes, "You're stretching my jumper."

"Who-"

"A friend," John could feel anger start to bubble within him. "I am allowed to have friends-"

"An Alpha?" Sherlock hissed.

"Oh," John turned around, yanking out of Sherlock's grip. "You're right! It's an alpha, quick, I must spread my legs and bare my throat." He shoved at Sherlock, pushing him back a few steps. "I am not some desperate omega slut and neither should I have to answer to you about who I see."

Sherlock's gaze skittered in panic about something. He pulled a face and his shoulders dropped. "A friend?" he asked, catching his arms behind his back as if to restrain himself.

"Yeah," John nodded. "He clapped me on the shoulder in greeting at lunch."

"And…." Sherlock's shoulder pulled back further as if he were tugging at his arms to keep them back. "In the years that I was…you never once thought about another mate?"

John drummed a single finger on the counter, feeling anger bubble up. Not just anger but rage, the same rage he had drowned in when he had seen Sherlock on the television months ago.

"I was grieving," he snarled at Sherlock. "The love of my life, my mate, the father of my children had committed suicide. Do you really think I got over that in a few months? That I would ever have gotten over that?"

Sherlock winced. "John, I only meant-"

"What? That you could jump off a building for us and tear yourself to pieces running all over the word to keep us safe but I'm such a fickle useless omega that I would be throwing myself into the arms of any dashing stranger? After what we had? It would have taken another bolt of lightning to have interested me and no-one is lucky enough to fall in love that way twice in their life."

"Then why can't I come home?" Sherlock roared at him. "If you love me that much, why won't you let me come home?"

"I don't know," John exploded. "I don't…" he sighed and looked away. "I don't trust you to trust me," he breathed. "I don't trust that if I let you home today that you won't be gone again tomorrow." He clenched his fists. "And…I grieved for you. And now you're here and…" he closed his eyes feeling something terrible well within him. "It's like a dream and I'm terrified I'm going to wake up."

Then Sherlock was close, pulling him in and John allowed himself to be held, almost sagging with the weight of his fears.

"There's nothing else to run from," Sherlock whispered. "Trust that I would never have come back if there was the slightest chance I would have to leave again. Trust that I couldn't do it twice, now that I know the price of it."

John opened his eyes and shook his head. "I know…I know the why Sherlock. And God, I get it but…I don't want to forgive you."

Sherlock froze under him and slowly pulled away.

"And I hate it more because I know I will," John said, stepping away. "Just…I need time to get my head round this.

Sherlock stayed where he was and, with a sigh, John went up to bed.

* * *

The entirety of Christmas Eve was spent watching Sherlock and the kids assemble their Santa traps with the air of those about to make the greatest scientific discovery of the year.

"Sure this is wise?" John asked Sherlock as he pulled on some rubber gloves.

"I promised them I'd catch Santa," Sherlock looked over at him meaningfully. "And I will."

* * *

When the kids had finally all gone to sleep, John stared at the downstairs, not entirely sure where he was allowed to step.

"This way," Sherlock said, weaving a path through the flat.

There was a balloon filled with some stain that Sherlock had shown the children earlier. Nonchalantly, Sherlock popped it as he went by and John almost yelped in protest, thinking about that bloody deposit he would never ever see again.

There was no colour.

John blinked blankly at it as it turned into a gas when it hit the air and gaped at Sherlock. "You switched it," he accused.

"Of course, they are woefully behind at spotting sleight of hand," Sherlock shook his head. Every single thing that he had done with the kids, he set off and John watched as it all worked completely differently to what he had seen earlier.

"They're gonna love this," John whispered, enchanted at the idea. "You do realise it's gonna get harder to do this every year?"

"Yes," Sherlock sounded as if he were eager for the challenge. "They seem…more relaxed with me now," he said slowly as he reached into the chimney and set off what looked like a sack trap.

"They adore you," John agreed, eyeing up his chair to work out whether it was safe to sit in it or not. "Phin thinks you hung the moon. Even Teagan chatters about you non-stop now."

Sherlock withdrew from the fireplace and turned to him. "So I've won them over?" he asked, folding his arms.

"Yeah," John nodded. "Who else's Dad takes them out when it snows at midnight or sneaks them into buildings they shouldn't go in and on boats they should not be on. Or sets up Santa traps? I always knew you'd be a fantastic father, especially when they were older and could join in with your escapades."

Sherlock blinked in surprise and shifted "I…Thank you," he said, seeming taken aback by it. "I…here," he said, holding out his hand for the bag of presents John was holding. "Shall we?"

They worked in a comfortable silence, sliding the stocking presents into the correct stockings. Sherlock added some things from his pockets as they worked, things from the traps that he'd managed to incorporate in.

Lastly he placed a note on the plate they'd 'left' for Santa as John bit the mince pie and downed the brandy.

"Carrot?" he offered Sherlock.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock bit the raw vegetable and chewed. "Why only half?" he complained. "Why would the Reindeer show such restraint?"

"Because most children give him a carrot," John said with a smile. "They have to save room for more."

Sherlock snorted. "A reindeer that can both fly and is conscientious? I'm not entirely sure which is less likely."

John laughed. "Right," he said, turning. "Is it safe?" he asked, peering at the room.

"Indeed."

"Then I'm off to bed. See you in the morning right? Bright and early? I'll hold them off until you get here."

"John?"

John stopped in the doorway and turned as Sherlock strode towards him. "I…I like Christmas traditions," he said slowly.

"Okay?" John frowned. "Have we missed something?"

Sherlock looked up.

Mistletoe.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness," Sherlock said softly. "Just…a hint maybe."

"You say hints are cheating," John said, staring up at the greenery.

"A clue then," Sherlock remedied. "I like clues," he added sincerely.

Knowing it was a dangerous move, John flicked his eyes to Sherlock's. His mate was standing very still as if afraid to move and lose the ground he'd gained.

Taking the chance, John leaned up and forward and places a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips.

They were pushing it with Sherlock's alpha instincts. A tremor raced through his mate and Sherlock's head dipped to press against John's.

"More," Sherlock whispered pleadingly.

It was foolish, John knew but no-one had ever accused John of being sensible in the face of danger. He leaned up again and this time there was nothing chaste about it. Instead they battled with teeth, lips and tongue, pouring years' worth of frustration and longing into it, grabbing at each other and pushing in close.

Sherlock's hand dived under his jumper and stroked the skin of his belly, then traced around to his back, pulling him up as close as possible then pushing against the waist of John's jeans.

"Kids," John breathed into Sherlock's mouth. "Christmas. Can't."

Sherlock tilted his head up and back and panted at the ceiling, nodding. Taking the hint, John detangled himself from Sherlock's grip. When he was calm, he looked over at Sherlock who was gripping the door frame with white knuckled hands and still staring up. Baring his throat.

"Go," Sherlock pleaded.

John almost stepped forward before he caught himself and turned to flee upstairs.

Fucking micro-heats.

* * *

Next up: Stubborn


	6. Stubborn

Stubborn

* * *

**January**

The youngest member of the Holmes family was petulant, demanding and, if his fathers were honest, a touch of the wrong side of being spoiled.

He was also, surprisingly enough, not that stubborn.

Phinneas Holmes made snap judgements. At all of nearly three, he could spot an object and declare 'mine' to signify he wanted it and he was going to have it. Very often his twin sister was 'mine' as was his Dad, his favourite stuffed beefeater teddybear that his Dad despaired of and, most recently, his toy drum that his Uncle had bought him for Christmas with a triumphant smile shot off in his Dad's direction.

But Phin was a temperamental, mercurial little soul and if someone showed him something that was better than what he had, or made more sense than what he thought, he would adapt and change at a moment's notice. To Phin's mind, there was no point in not getting what he wanted out of a misplaced sense of pride.

A fact that his Daddy always used to his advantage.

"Smelly," Daddy said, pulling a face at the teddybear that Phin was tightly holding onto. "Yuck. Shall we put it in the wash?"

Phin shook his head emphatically. Wash meant not having teddy and he wanted his teddy. It was quite simple.

Besides, he liked the underlying smell. Beyond the bad smell wasgood smells of home, his parents and siblings, Grandma Hudson's cakes and Uncle Mycroft's leather shoes.

Daddy left teddy alone but held out a t-shirt to him that smelled of all the good, safe things that Phin liked and also smelled like feet.

The next day Daddy showed it to him again. The bad smell was gone but the good smell remained.

Well then…not much point in making a fuss if he could still have the good smell. And Dad was playing with them so he could cope without teddy for a bit.

Still, his Daddy laughed when, two hours later Phin was frowning at teddy as it dried out in the boiler.

It was taking far too long!

* * *

Faith Holmes was often seen as the sweetest member of the family. Most would comment on her angelic colouring, her happy smile and cheerful, sunny nature and assume that she was the easiest to put up with for more than ten minutes.

What bothered her brother never bothered Faith. Of all of her siblings, Faith had gained the foresight to understand the benefit of patience. If she waited happily to have the last hug it meant she got the longest hug and the easiest smile. It meant that Uncle Mycroft would marvel at her just a little bit longer than the others.

It just made sense to her to wait. When she was older, louder and her personality not hidden quite so much by baby shyness, her Dad would often remark that she was Mycroft's clone, just far more interesting and blended with her Daddy's more charming personality, but for now they all were unknowingly wrapped around her little finger.

She also happened to be the most stubborn.

Unlike her brother, Faith would observe what was going on and wait to gather data. But once her mind was made up she stuck to it.

Completely.

Faith had decided she wanted a kitten. They were soft and pretty and purred. Better than a dog because they barked and slobbered and Faith didn't like that. They were more interesting than a fish because fish couldn't be hugged and were too slippery. Birds were too flappy and the animals at the zoo were probably too big and some hard sharp teeth.

No, it had to be a kitten.

The next thing was the colour. She didn't like the ginger and white cats because in the sun they didn't look quite as interesting as the others. The same went for the black cats and the black and white cats. In the sun their colours weren't as striking.

Grey cats were pretty but the ones with all the different colours were the best.

And she wanted a girl cat. Too many boys around.

So one day, at the park, Faith picked up the kitten she wanted and carried it to her Daddy.

"Want it," she told him firmly.

Daddy looked a little taken aback. "I think that might belong to someone-"

"Want it," Faith replied firmly.

Daddy stared at her and then at the sky. "Couldn't have had one easy one?" he asked the clouds.

"Have it," Faith decided and went to show her siblings her catch.

Daddy tried for three days to get her to give the kitten up. But the kitten was just as in love with Faith as Faith was with the kitten and after three days he let Dad have a go.

Dad didn't do much better. And no-one in the area put up any pictures asking for the kitten back.

Dad was starting to come around a bit more now but he kept glaring at the kitten. That was the one thing that worried Faith a little bit, because she liked Dad being around now, he did funny things with them and he made Daddy laugh a lot. Faith didn't want him to stop coming around.

But then, one night when she fell asleep on Daddy's lap with the kitten on her lap, Dad leaned over and pressed a kiss to Daddy and stroked both her hair and the kitten's ears.

That was fine then.

* * *

Callum Holmes was far too busy exploring life to be stubborn.

With the return of his Dad a new world had been opened up. A world of experiments and questions and even some answers.

It was brilliant!

"Why do you love Daddy?"

Dad looked thoughtful as they sat on the floor. They were examining a dead woodlouse, which was a word that Dad liked to use a lot and sounded really fancy. "Because he's my favourite thing in the whole world," Dad said after a moment.

"What about me?" Callum asked, poking at the woodlouse.

"We made you. You fall into that category too."

Category. That was a way of sorting things out. Dad said it was the only good way to keep your thoughts tidy.

Daddy had made some comment about neither of them understanding the definition of the word tidy.

"Why don't you live with us?" Callum asked stroking the dead belly.

"Because your father is slow," Dad said, sounding annoyed by it. "I have to wait for him to catch up sometimes."

"Daddy's clever," Callum argued. "He makes bad tummies go away."

"Not in this," Dad replied. "You wouldn't believe how long I had to wait before he agreed to bond with me the first time."

"The first time?" Callum asked curiously.

"Before you were born," Dad explained, pulling out some more stuff from underneath the cupboard. Callum eagerly pulled the curled up carcass of a spider over to lay next to the woodlouse.

Before he was born? Callum hadn't really thought about the world before he was born. He supposed it had to have happened because Tiggie was older than he was, but it didn't seem like it would be that interesting.

"But it was better when I came along," Callum declared loudly before twisting to look at Dad. "Wasn't it?"

Dad smiled an odd smile. "You've always had a gift for that," he said softly. More softly then he usually sounded.

"Why do they have more legs than us?" Callum asked turning his attention to the dead insects. "I think more legs would be better."

* * *

Teagan Holmes was far too much like her Dad when it came to being stubborn.

She liked to be right.

"The kitten should be called Tulip," she announced.

"Kitten," Faith replied easily.

"Tulip."

Faith shot her a look as if to ask why she cared and turned her back to Teagan, playing with the kitten.

"Kitten's a stupid name," Teagan argued, folding her arms.

"Well, she has your tact," Daddy muttered at Dad as he glared down at her. "Teagan, it's Faith's kitten. If that's what she wishes to call it, then that's what we will call it."

"Unimaginative though," Dad agreed, eyeing the kitten with some distaste.

Pleased that someone agreed with her point of view, Teagan pushed a bit towards him. "It needs a proper name," she declared.

"Tulips isn't much better," Dad added absently.

"It is," Teagan argued. "I know a girl called Rose. You can call girls by flower names. It's allowed."

Dad stared down at her with his pale eyes that she could never quite decide the colour of. "I suppose there is some logic in that," he conceded.

Teagan smiled at him again, pleased. She was the eldest and Daddy always talked to her more than the others, she was always right.

Dad's smile twitched even further as if he could tell what she was thinking.

* * *

"Callum said that Dad wants to live with us," Teagan announced that night to Daddy who paused as he ducked to drink his tea. He sighed and placed the tea on the side table carefully, being very exact about where he put the mug.

He was deciding what to say. When Daddy got careful about things in front of him, it meant he wanted to say something really well.

"We'll see," Daddy said, disappointingly vague today.

"He hasn't made you cry for ages," Teagan said, not wanting to let it go. She'd been watching closely and he hadn't looked upset since Christmas. In fact he smiled a lot more and seemed a lot more fun.

Daddy didn't seem to know what to say in response.

"Do you love him? Because if you do you have to get married."

"We are married," Daddy said sounding as if he wasn't really thinking about his words now. "Or bonded…" he shook his head. "And that's not the problem Tiggie."

"Then what is?" Teagan asked, blinking at him.

Daddy was being silly. If they loved each other and smiled then they should be together and Dad should live with them.

Daddy suddenly got an odd look on his face as he looked at her. "I'll explain it when you're older," he said after a moment.

"But…" she frowned at him. "You smile when he's here and he smiles at you. And he loves you lots. He told Callum that you're the world and we're just as important because you made us."

Daddy blinked and sighed, "He…Is that what he said?" he asked sounding suddenly tired.

Teagan nodded seriously. "And you love him, right?"

Daddy nodded.

"Then I think he should move in," Teagan said with a firm nod. "Before the twins turn three," she added. "That way they can wake him up in the morning."

Daddy still looked thoughtful when she was tucked up in bed.

That was because she was right.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes also liked to be right.

"Your little fan club is working on me day and night," John sighed as they sat in the coffee shop. "Phin thinks life can't happen without you, Faith requests you every night, Callum asks incessant questions and Teagan has decided that I'm being stupid for not letting you stay."

It was probably a wise idea not to point out that their eldest had a point. Still, it was warming to hear. A few months ago they had barely noted his comings and goings.

"Are they being at all successful?" Sherlock asked.

John stared at his tea and sighed. "I…" he shook his head. "I spent just under two years been seen as the omega you duped. I hate the idea of it."

"You care far too much about what people think," Sherlock muttered.

"No, I care that I might wonder that."

Sherlock weighed that idea up. "I haven't let any cases interfere with caring for the children-" he started to defend.

"I know you love them, I can see it every time you see them. I…" John hesitated. "You're probably better than you would have been because you appreciate it now."

Probably.

"You're blind and stupid if you can't see it every time I look at you," Sherlock complained.

John stared at the table and then looked up, seriously. "I swear to God Sherlock, if you do it again, if you make a decision like that again without telling me, I will never, ever forgive you."

"It was necessary-"

"Then it had better be just as necessary next time."

Sherlock nodded and stirred his sugar in. "Will you still be free on Thursday?"

In front of him, John shifted in the chair. "Thursday?" he replied blankly.

"For coffee," Sherlock explained. "I am not giving up on this John, no matter how stubborn you wish to be, I will be more so."

"You tit," John breathed. "You complete and utter tit."

That sounded almost…fond?

"You can be so bloody stupid," John sighed, a smile threatening as he stood up. "I'll talk to you when you catch up."

He turned and walked out.

What had just happened?

Sherlock sat back, baffled as he replayed their conversation.

Wait….

Feeling his eyes suddenly widen in delighted realisation, Sherlock almost threw himself from his seat and chased after John.


	7. Obsessive

Emotional Times:

Obsessive

* * *

John wasn't entirely sure whether it was because Sherlock was overly enthusiastic or whether it was because he'd lost all built up ambivalence but Sherlock Holmes was being incredibly obsessive.

Sherlock prowled the room paying almost no attention to him. "There are two bedside tables, why are there two?"

So much for 'I just want to see, John'.

"Because it's symmetrical," John answered, folding his arms.

There was a doubtful look shot at him.

"Oh and all the alphas I've had up here," John clicked his fingers as if he'd just remembered being a promiscuous git. "Yeah, you know they won't follow a desperate omega up to the room unless there's a good bedside table."

Sherlock glared at him. "Not exactly the right time to be making such jokes, John."

"Then don't be an idiot," John suggested, folding his arms. "Anything else you'd like to ask?"

"We can't have bedding during the heat," Sherlock announced, studying the windows.

"Why?" John asked wearily.

"Because, if I get tangled up in them I will panic."

Oh.

Suddenly unsure, John looked away. "So…have you…do you want to talk about it yet?"

Sherlock rattled the window and lifted it to open the bottom slide. "I cannot be constrained," Sherlock said, peering out and down.

"So…"

"The covers get tangled. I'm not sure how rational I'll be about it," Sherlock admitted, still looking out.

"And you'll be so panicked that you'll need an escape route?"

"Not looking for a way out," Sherlock replied, his voice almost lost on the wind as he shifted, more out of the window than in.

John sighed. "We could just lock the windows," he suggested.

Sherlock turned his head to glare at John over his shoulder. "Please tell me you weren't in charge of defensive strategy when you were in the army."

"We're fine," John soothed, stepping forward.

Sherlock shifted again, threw him another dubious look and leaned back and out of the window, his knees the only thing keeping him from falling as he dangled out to study the situation.

Well…John supposed that was what you got when your alpha had been forced to leave you and your children behind for years. God only knew what Sherlock was searching for; it could have been for prowling alphas or lurking snipers or maybe even another insane genius.

It didn't seem to wise to ask for clarification, John thought as he watched Sherlock slide out just a little further. Adding to the paranoia wouldn't be helpful.

But watching his alpha balance precariously out the window as he surveyed the possible attack routes was hardly helpful either. John hovered close, ready to catch Sherlock's feet if needed. "You do realise you can't go around doing stuff like this? The kids will copy you just to-"

Sherlock sat up instantly, shooting him a panicked look. "They can't do this. They might fall."

Huh…that was…brilliant. Filing it away, John turned from him. "Mm. Just thought I'd give you a head's up."

Sherlock made an odd noise behind him. "It would be extraordinarily difficult to climb up here," he admitted. When John glanced back at him, he was sliding back into the room.

"Phew," John said sarcastically.

The next moment he had his nose to the wall and Sherlock was behind him, slamming their hands to the sides by John's head.

"Sherlock-" John said, trying to force a warning into his voice and not just purr with contentment.

"I need to protect you," came the ragged response.

"I know," John struggled to relax. "I know."

A weight suddenly rested on his nape as Sherlock struggled to get himself back under control. Then wetness as he started to kiss where John's neck met his collar. Tiny, neat little pecks.

John stared at the wallpaper, suddenly very on edge.

"Don't you dare bite me," he hissed.

The hands on his wrists tightened. "Mine."

It was such an old tradition, one that had faded away a century ago. The bond bite, the mark.

Ultimate sign of submission.

"I mean it," John hissed. "I swear. Do not bite me."

Teeth grazed his skin and John swallowed deeply, mind racing. To fight back would make Sherlock feel even more of an urge to bite him. It only ever tended to happen when an alpha was dealing with a reluctant omega.

"Sherlock," he tried to level his voice. "Please."

The teeth turned to tongue. Soothing laps that didn't make John feel any more confident that Sherlock wouldn't do it.

No. This was not happening. He had enough to deal with just being a flaming omega without having a permanent mark to show a forced submission.

"Sherlock," he gasped, one last time.

Then the weight vanished and he turned to the wall, relieved.

"I didn't…I…John, I-"

"I know," John swallowed. "A miracle that hadn't happened earlier-"

"Turn around," Sherlock hissed.

Oh. John spun, keeping his back to the wall and stared at Sherlock who had pinned himself to the opposite wall.

"Is that going to happen during-"

"You have to trust that I won't," Sherlock, looked past him at the door. "Fighting will only increase my instinct to do it."

John rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the wetness there. "That's a bit hard to do-"

Sherlock snarled and clenched his fists. "Then why am I back here if you don't trust me?"

John hesitated. "I…I want you here. I just…you can't expect me to trust you over night. It's earned, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head in frustration.

"What?"

"I am fighting everything I am not to just shove you down," Sherlock hissed. "I have been fighting that urge for weeks. I have done everything you have asked, jumped every hoop, talked to every bloody therapist. Stayed with Mycroft. Mycroft!" he added disbelievingly. "What else do I have to do?"

"I don't know," John snapped back. "Not leave."

"You ask me to leave," Sherlock stepped forward. "You keep telling me to go slow, to stay away," he took another step. "I've done everything the human has asked."

John felt his eyes widen and he swallowed.

"Mycroft can collect the children," Sherlock added.

"We are not-"

Sherlock stopped dead. "I will not force you," he hissed. "But you are deliberately pushing it," he snapped. "And you know it."

John scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

He had no idea what he wanted.

"Let me look after you," Sherlock pleaded. "Let me. You have to let me, John. I can't force you into that."

John shook his head, closing his eyes and not daring to look at Sherlock.

Suddenly, Sherlock dropped to his knees and John flinched, half expecting-

Nothing.

Stunned, he opened his eyes and looked down at Sherlock who was shaking from the effort of kneeling before John and, slowly, when he was sure John was watching, bared his throat.

John stared.

Sherlock was almost shivering with the effort now; his alpha instincts, his innate personality, hell even his experience over the past three years must have all been screaming at him not to do this, not to submit like this.

But he stayed where he was, forcing himself to remain at John's feet.

"There's…" Sherlock seemed to struggle with the words. "There's no failure in this, John."

John said nothing, but felt tears prick as he watched.

"How are you not doing this?" Sherlock whispered. "It is taking everything I have to ignore the instincts. How have you ignored yours?"

John clenched his hands. Sherlock looked as if he were about to wrench himself to his feet and, at the last minute, stayed put.

"Tell me," Sherlock hissed, the chords in his neck strained from effort.

"Because…" John stared at a spot on the carpet. "If I let you look after me, if I don't stay strong…" his voice wavered.

"John?"

"…I won't be able to do it again," John confessed. "I won't be this strong next time."

Sherlock stared up at him. "Never," he whispered. "I swear to you I wouldn't leave-"

"You could die," John whispered.

Sherlock's entire being just softened. "Come here," he said gently.

John shook his head.

Shuffling forward, Sherlock leaned until his nose was close enough to John's jeans and then nuzzled at his knee as he hummed soothingly.

"I'll look after you," he whispered. "My brave omega," he almost purred. "My husband. Just let me in."

"I…" he wanted to so much but the safeguards he'd put in place to stop him from collapsing, the warnings, the thoughts, the worries, all of them locked his knees from buckling. He'd worked overtime to keep himself standing up all those years ago, to ensure that no-one would look at his kids and think they were somehow less because all they'd had was a weak omega.

He wasn't entirely sure how to drop them all and fall.

"Stop fighting," Sherlock rubbed his cheek against John's thigh. "Stop fighting."

"I'm not fucking surrendering," John hissed, his shaking almost violent.

"There's nothing left to fight," Sherlock snapped back.

Startled, John looked down.

Sherlock looked up at him, waiting.

John let his knees buckle and he slid down the wall, reaching out blindly for Sherlock as he started to cry, hating it, even as he did.

Sherlock pulled him close and curled up around him, protecting him. And it had been so fucking long since John had let himself feel safe that he grabbed blindly at his mate, half believing that he could never, ever let go of him.

* * *

His heat crashed through about an hour later. Thankfully, Sherlock had already fired off a text to Mycroft for childminding duties.

John had secretly being dreading it. Vague memories of the heats he'd had when pregnant with Teagan had haunted him ever since Sherlock had returned.

What they had now couldn't be further from it.

It was gentle. Infinitely gentle, with Sherlock handling John as if he were spun sugar and while usually that would irritate the merry hell out of him, for the first time ever, John simply indulged in it. It was as if he were precious beyond all measure and Sherlock nuzzled every single part of him as if to kiss all the hurt and long lonely nights away when John had fought to keep grief from drowning him.

There were new scars on Sherlock. He was littered with them but the moment John tried to look, to inspect and try to help with what had been inflicted upon his alpha, Sherlock growled at him. Instead, he seemed to be fascinated by the scar running across John's middle from the caesarean and the surgery afterwards.

"I missed them," Sherlock whispered to his skin as they rocked into each other. "I didn't look after you," he almost whined in apology, planting tiny little kisses to John's throat.

John traced a scar on Sherlock's back that he would later recognise as a lash mark. "Nor I you," he whispered back. "But you're home now," he said, kissing Sherlock's ear and lapping at the skin there.

Sherlock clutched him tighter.

* * *

When John stirred, feeling the odd shift within him of the inbetween heat stages, he stretched out looking for Sherlock.

He wasn't in the room.

Annoyed because his mate should be there when he woke, John rolled out of bed and plucked up a pair of pyjama trousers, then padded out to hunt Sherlock down.

He was in the twins room, knelt beside Faith's little bed with his head sadly on the covers. Spotting him, John walked over quickly and curled up, nuzzling under him to be hugged.

"I rather like this," Sherlock said, turning his attention slightly to John. "Feeling needed."

"That's good then because you'll be sick of this by the time it fades," John told him, utterly certain of the fact.

Sherlock shook his head. "I want them back," he hissed as he pressed a kiss to John's head, drawing in a deep breath. "I need them back."

John sighed. "They're gonna find this hilarious."

* * *

Sherlock paced the window and John curled his hands in his chair to keep himself from going over and soothing him.

They both wanted their children back.

"What is taking him so –" Sherlock cut himself off and almost launched at the window. Then, with a happy whine turned to go downstairs.

"Trousers."

"What?"

"You. You need trousers. You can't go out naked," John suddenly remembered.

Stupid human rules.

Sherlock growled unhappily and then dashed up to find them.

* * *

His children were home. They were warm and lively and smelled like chocolate and pastry and were giggling at the sight of Sherlock growling at Mycroft, thinking he was joking.

When Mycroft backed off, Sherlock continued to prowl their brood protectively.

"What's Dad doing?" Callum asked curiously.

"Mine," John whispered, cupping his son's little face. Slowly he herded them until they were sat in a rather strange little pile on the floor so he could look at them all together. Faith on Teagan's lap, Callum standing, frowning at them both with pure curiosity and Phin yawning against Callum.

"Look," John whispered to Sherlock. "Look."

His mate turned from his protective prowling and tilted his head.

"Ours," John whispered, stroking Faith's hand gently. "Look what we made."

Sherlock sat next to him, taking in the sight. Then leaned forward and gently started to smell at them, making them all giggle.

"Ours," Sherlock agreed happily, picking Faith up and cuddling her as he inspected her little fingers.

No, John thought dimly as he watched Sherlock with their children, Sherlock had never been quite so obsessive about noting every little thing.

But then again, he'd never appreciated coming home quite so much before.

* * *

Just one more chapter to go which should be up on Friday I think :)


	8. Nervous

Nervous

Author's Note:

The last chapter here. I am going to post a short sequel that deals with Sherlock and John dealing with Sherlock's mental state after he's returned.

* * *

Home

He was home.

Pleased, Sherlock prowled the room, taking in the mix of his things with John. They had agreed that once the kids were a little older, they would swap to being downstairs again but for now, they were staying in the upper room.

And, though he had been at the flat a lot since returning, he hadn't even been over enough to witness all the fascinating dynamics between his family members in quite the same way.

* * *

Breakfast

He'd never really been included in early morning life before – mainly because it was a feat to get all the children ready and John had never seemed willing to have Sherlock's 'help' before now.

Teagan had to get to school and Callum needed to be in playschool. The twins were just generally a pain in the morning – both grumpy and sullen which was an interesting surprise. Callum was like John when he was tired just nodding at everything while Teagan was the only one bright and alert.

She danced over to Sherlock as he endured Phin's sulky grip. Sat in his pyjamas and dressing gown, the sight made Teagan stop in surprise.

"I've never seen you in a dressing gown," she said to him, circling the chair curiously.

"Now you have," Sherlock replied, frowning as Phin refused the toast.

"He lives in them for days at a time," John added placing some cereal on the table. "Eat up Tiggie, you don't want to be late."

"I'm never late," Teagan replied with the haughty manner of the Holmes family. "Callum is," she told Sherlock, as if spilling some grand secret.

Phin liked toast as long as it was cold while Faith changed her mind almost daily as to what she liked to eat. Callum didn't seem to be that aware of what was put in front of him and ate anything, while Teagan liked Rice Krispies. John would eat a slice of toast as he walked around, getting everything ready with the organisational skills he must have learned in the army.

It all went slightly to hell when Sherlock gave Callum coffee to wake him up.

* * *

Two hours later, Sherlock had to suffer John yelling at him when the playschool had phoned at the end of their tether with the caffeine fuelled four year old.

"It was an experiment," Sherlock defended. "He was so slow."

* * *

Bath time

Sherlock sat on the bathroom floor, fascinated and determined to observe first this time.

First the twins went in. Phin seemed to glare suspiciously at the water while Faith shrieked in delight and splashed with pure joy as if to include all and sundry in their bath.

Callum and Teagan sat at the edge of the bathroom, on either side of Sherlock, peeking at the twins.

"Are you gonna wash their hair?" Teagan asked.

John glared at them both and the pair looked delighted. The twins seemed to recognise the words and stared up at John with a mixture of pleading and horror.

"Cheers," John muttered as he cupped a hand and scooped up some water. Gently, he poured it over Phin's head, protecting their son's eyes with his hands.

Phin shook his head like a wet dog, glaring up at John. "Don't want," he said frankly to John. "No shampoo."

"Tough luck kiddo," John said unsympathetically. "You're getting it."

Phin let out a frustrated wail and tried to climb out of the bath. Faith, having watched the exchange, joined in.

John sat back on his heels and looked at Sherlock. "You're in," he said with a wicked smile.

What?

Sherlock froze and looked behind him, stupid as it was, hoping there was another person lurking there. Reluctantly, he leaned forward and crawled over to sit next to John. Phin stared at him as if he were a saviour sent from heaven and stood, clutching at Sherlock's hand hopefully.

"Sit down, Phin," John instructed, hands full of Faith as he sat her on her bum again in the water.

Phin stared at Sherlock with huge eyes, pleadingly.

Raising his gaze, Sherlock lifted Phin off his feet, then leaned down to sit Phin in the water.

"Copy what I do," John instructed as he wet Faith's hair.

"Dad," Phin whimpered, looking up with tear filled eyes.

Sherlock hesitated and watched John as he carefully added shampoo to his hand and started to massage at Faith's hair. She screwed her eyes shut and shook her head, trying to shake off John's hand.

"Coward," John muttered at Sherlock.

Absolutely. Sherlock reluctantly reached for the bottle and squeezed some liquid onto his palm.

Phin stared at him with absolute betrayal.

* * *

"That's horrific," Sherlock paced their room. "How do you cope with that?"

Phin had refused to look at Sherlock and had instead thrown himself at John, as if Sherlock had performed torture on him.

John shrugged." They have to have their hair washed."

"He hates me," Sherlock sat down on the bed, shaken.

"He's two," John stared at him baffled. "He'll forget about it tomorrow."

There had to be a better way.

* * *

There wasn't. No matter what Sherlock did – bathing with the twins and letting them wash his hair, no matter how he tried to hide it or the different shampoos he used they never liked it.

Still, Teagan thought the amount of effort he put into not having the twins hate him for the twenty minutes after their hair wash was hilarious.

* * *

Bed

Sherlock tumbled back into bed, curling up next to John. He'd been on a case for three days and had just caught the suspect.

"You smell like gunpowder," John mumbled to the pillow.

Sherlock nuzzled into his neck, feeling something stir within him.

"Good case?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock let his hand drift upwards, pulling the t-shirt up as he moved. "Idiot killer. All that effort to create a beautifully complex crime scene and then he started leaving clues as to how he did it. Anderson read them out," he added with distaste.

John smiled sleepily. "Bastard."

"Indeed." Sherlock started to slide down the bed, smelling John's back and kissing the skin he had bared.

He wanted him. He wanted him so much.

Sherlock let his breath tickle the smooth skin as he pushed down John's pyjama bottoms, kissing and nipping at the cheeks there.

John wriggled welcomingly, his breath hitching. "Sherlock-"

The door burst open.

"Daddy!"

Yelping, Sherlock yanked himself back and scrambled away from John who sat up as Teagan threw herself at the bed and onto John.

"Shush," John soothed, rocking her. "Did you have a bad dream?"

She nodded, her face streaked with tears. "I got pecked by birds!" she almost shrieked and then started to cry even harder.

John rocked her and Sherlock peered at them both, completely lost.

"Birds?" he mouthed at John.

John shrugged, as if none the wiser than Sherlock.

Alpha instincts purred in delight at the sight of John with their daughter, so reassuring, so loving, so deliciously welcoming…

Sherlock sighed and rolled away, getting up as Teagan snuggled close. It would appear that any activity for the night wasn't going to-

"Dad," she looked over John's shoulder. "You have to stay too."

No. Why? Helplessly he looked at John. "Daddy's just as good at protecting you as I am," he said glancing at the door.

"I know," she shifted a bit in John's arms. "But you might have to go out and attack the birds to save us."

John was clearly trying not to snigger into Teagan's hair. "Yeah," he said. "Come on Dad, learn to think the problem away," he added with a pointed look at Sherlock's crotch.

"I was not going to-" Sherlock floundered, suddenly flustered. "I…" he hesitated, not having had any of their children stay in their bed before. He and John had both stayed up and awake with Teagan and Callum when they had been ill at night, but never…never…

Muttering under his breath, he got back on the bed. They kept Teagan between them as they lay down to sleep.

"Okay?" John asked over her hair.

"I've not done this before," Sherlock muttered. "It's odd."

"Scared?" John asked with a challenging grin.

Sherlock glared at him, then studied Teagan. With a wary sigh, he clambered out of the bed.

"Hey?" John looked affronted. "Why-"

"Going to get the others," Sherlock sighed. "What did you see that made you scared of the birds? You clearly saw the most of it," he said to Teagan.

"It fell in front of us and the insides came out," Teagan turned and clutched John's shirt. "Is that what happens to people? All their insides just fall out when they die?"

John looked torn.

* * *

When he had scooped their brood up, including Callum who had whined and complained that the bird had been cool and the twins who had been starting to stir with a bad dream themselves, Sherlock sighed.

They were covered in children with bony arms and sharp knees and radiating heat like they were little balls of sun.

"This will not be a comfortable night," Sherlock complained.

"Could have left Callum," John muttered and then winced at their son, as if hearing their complaint flung his arm out, smacking John in the ribs. "In future reference, if it's to sleep, Callum always gets left upstairs. He'll happily shove us all out of the bed."

"He's like you," Sherlock argued. "He'll feel left out."

That earned him a scathing look. "And the one that's most like you is the one that started this," John muttered.

"She's hardly like me; do you think I went running when I saw blood?"

"Do you think I did?"

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "I still say it's your fault. You're terrible at dealing with surprises. It must have been the shock that's upset them all."

"I'm bad at dealing with surprises?" John asked incredulously. "From the boy who once ran away from his only surprise party."

"I ran away from the people, not the surprise," Sherlock argued. "And you threw things at me when I wasn't dead."

John narrowed his gaze. "I missed. I never miss. Clearly I wasn't that pissed off."

"You didn't miss Mycroft," Sherlock pointed out. "And I'm quick," he added proudly.

John turned, just fractionally. Enough to roll Callum onto Sherlock and Phin to kick out a foot at Sherlock's hip in protest.

"Didn't miss that time," John grinned happily at the ceiling.

Teagan suddenly raised her head. "We're trying to sleep," she scolded the pair of them with a dangerous look.

Sherlock snorted as John started to laugh which made Teagan glare harder and mutter something under her breath.

"Told you she's like you. Just as bossy," John said between chuckles.

"Daddy," she scolded. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock smiled as John turned his head into Sherlock's shoulder and pressed a kiss there.

"Think you'll be able to keep up with this?" John whispered when Teagan's breathing started to even out in sleep.

"The game is on," Sherlock murmured to John, suddenly content.

John snorted. "Only you," he said fondly.

* * *

The End


End file.
